?You can?t shoot,? said a voice in the bundle.
?Why not??
?There are rules for the SAPS.?
Mazibuko laughed. ?Shoot, Da Costa.?
The shot was a thunderbolt in the room; the man made a deep, curious noise. The smell of cordite filled the room.
?Here?s some bad news, assholes. We are not police,? said Mazibuko. ?Let me ask you again: Who is the chief gangsta here??
?I am,? said the man in the middle, anxiety creasing his face.
?Stand up.?
?Are you going to shoot me??
?That depends, Gangsta. That depends.?
Janina Mentz developed her policy on transcripts systematically. The challenge was to secure information, which in this country leaked like water from an earth dam, through the cracks of old loyalties and new aspirations, filtering away through a sandy bottom of corruption and petty avarice. If something gave off the smell of money scavengers would emerge from the oddest holes.
From the beginning her method was to trust nobody too much, to lead no one into temptation, to dampen the smell of the money.
Rahjev Rajkumar had coached her in the vulnerabilities of electronic information. Easy to copy, easy to distribute: floppy disks, zip disks, CD-ROM, FTP, hard drives smaller than half a cigarette pack, e-mail, hacking? because if it was linked it was crackable. If they could get into others? databases, sooner or later with some new ingenious programming, others would get into theirs.
There was only one way to secure information. One copy, on paper: fileable, controllable, limited.
That is why Rajkumar had an extra section to manage. The typists. Four women who played their old- fashioned electric IBM typewriters like virtuosas. Who fingered the keys at the speed of white light in a single video-monitored room on the sixth floor. Who would sign out each digital and magnetic tape, transcribe it, and sign it back in with the single copy on white paper. Paper that would not yellow or decay. So that Radebe and his team could analyze it and then file it away in the access- and temperature-controlled document library, together with the magnetic tapes. The digital tapes were deleted.
By the time the transcript of the interview with Orlando Arendse reached her, forty-seven minutes after it had taken place in Milnerton Ridge, Janina was already familiar with the crucial content.
Transcript of interview by A. J. M. Williams with Mr. Orlando Arendse, 23 October, 21:25,55 Milnerton Avenue, Milnerton Ridge
w: I represent the state, Mr. Arendse. I have a few questions about Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli and a Miss Monica Kleintjes? .
A: I don'?t work from home. Come and see me at my office in the morning.
w: I am afraid it can?t wait that long, Mr. Arendse.
A: Where are your credentials?
w: Here, Mr. Arendse.
A: Drop the ?mister?; I can see you don'?t mean it. This card says nothing. Come see me in the morning, thank you.
w: Maybe you should?
A: Maybe nothing. It?s outside my office hours, and you don'?t have a warrant.
w: I do.
A: Then where is it?
w: Here.
A: That?s a cell phone.
w: Just take the call.
A: Good-bye, my brother.
w: It?s from a house in Mitchell?s Plain that belongs to you.
A: What?
w: Take the call.
A: Hello. Yes ? Yes ? The bastards ? Yes ? Williams, who the hell are you?
w: Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr. Arendse?
A: What do you want?
w: Just some information.
A: Said the spider to the fly. Come in, we will sit in the back.
w: Thank you.
